To Love and Loathe
by Ell Roche
Summary: Echizen Ryoma hates tennis, absolutely loathes the sport. Her dad makes her practice every day, and play matches with him on the weekend. So what happens when she literally runs into Atobe Keigo and mocks his favored sport?


**Title:** To Love and Loathe

**Pairing:** Atobe Keigo/Echizen Ryoma

**Warnings: **AU, genderswap, and some angst.

* * *

Echizen Ryoma sprinted down the sidewalk, and then sped up the stairs. People squawked as she bumped into them, but she didn't care. She didn't have time to stop and apologize for being rude. She didn't want to talk to anyone, anyway. All she wanted was to be left alone! Was that too much to ask for? Was one day, just one _single_ day to herself really that selfish of a request?

Her father's frowning face popped into the forefront of her mind. Echizen Nanjiroh wore the ever-disappointed look on his face. She wasn't going to cave to it today, though. _Not this time_, Ryoma swore to herself. She had let her father manipulate her since she was a child. She wasn't sure how much longer she could last before it drove her insane.

Ryoma wasn't even puffing when she reached the top of the stairs that led to a local park. She could run for hours without getting tired. It was a result of the conditioning and exercise regimen that her father had developed for her. If she didn't fulfill all the requirements, he insisted on taking up even more of her free time; he granted her so little of it already.

To Ryoma's disgust, the sound of balls hitting rackets reached her ears. She sneered and kept running. It seemed like she had been trying to escape the sound of tennis for her entire life. She never managed to get away from it.

"I hate you!" she spat.

As always, tennis never responded. It couldn't. It was a game made up of inanimate objects. Her feelings weren't going to change that.

Ever since she could remember, tennis had been Ryoma's life. Not a _part_ of her life, but her actual life. She lived for tennis, because her father made her. She practiced for hours every day, because her father made her. And when her father dragged her out of bed at 3:00 a.m., she played him. If Ryoma had possessed any marketable skills, other than tennis, she would have run away like her brother Ryoga did years ago.

Ryoma rebelled against the pressure as best as she could. She never joined any tennis clubs, and especially not the one at Seigaku, despite her father's rants that she could easily lead the team to Nationals for the first time in decades. She also never entered any tournaments, because she had no interest in competing.

Tennis wasn't fun. Ryoma loathed tennis. Tennis was the bane of her existence.

As soon as she graduated, Ryoma was going to apply to colleges across the country. Maybe she would even apply to schools in America. She was willing to do anything to get away from her father's incessant love for tennis!

No matter how many times she told him she hated it, he laughed and brushed her comment aside. "Nobody can hate tennis!" he replied, though his eyes would dim. This was inevitably followed by a blaze, and his insistence that they play even more often, as if his passion for the game would rub off on her like a communicable disease.

This morning, though, had been the final straw. Her father had slid papers across the breakfast table, a beaming and smug smile on his face. "Surprise!" They were admittance and registration papers for the U.S. Open. She had been accepted on her father's recommendation. "It's time for a new generation of Echizens to take over the world!" Nanjiroh cackled.

Ryoma had been expecting it . . . dreading it ever since she began to consistently beat her father a little over a year ago. In the beginning, her wins were few and far between. Now she won about one-third of all the games he forced her to play with him.

"No," Ryoma replied as she tossed the papers on the floor.

Nanjiroh picked them back up, smoothed them out, and presented them to her again. "This is what you've always wanted."

Ryoma wanted to scream that it was what _he_ had always wanted. She wanted to remind him of all the times that she had told him how much she hated tennis. She wanted to yell that his obsession with tennis was why her big brother had fled, deserting her to suffer alone. She wanted to threaten him with running away and never coming home. Instead, she said, "I'm taking the day off."

As her father spluttered protests and urged her to sign the papers, Ryoma pulled on her tennis shoes and ran. Maybe if she ran long enough her brother would miraculously appear by the time she got home. Maybe if she kept running the papers would vanish. Maybe, if she sprinted, time would reverse and she could figure out a way to never pick up a racket in the first place. Maybe if she wished hard enough, tennis would cease to exist.

Echizen Ryoma didn't want to be a professional tennis player, and she couldn't understand how that could ever be someone's dream.

A grunt escaped Ryoma's lips as she slammed face-first into someone. The collision was rough and jarring. "Che," she muttered. Why did someone have to get in her way today, of all days?

"You ran into Ore-sama!"

Ryoma rolled her eyes and glanced upward. The guy she had smacked into was gorgeous. Unfortunately, it seemed like he knew it. His brown hair was combed to perfection, the breeze not even daring to disturb it. His blue eyes were brighter than the sky. "Obviously," she said.

He huffed and folded his arms. "I shall not leave this spot until you apologize."

"Okay." Ryoma took a step to the side, intent on continuing her run, but an even taller teen with black hair blocked her way. She sighed. Would an apology kill her? She had, after all, slammed right into him. It wouldn't even surprise her to find bruises on her skin tomorrow, which meant it was possible she had injured him as well. "Fine," she said. "I'm so—" Her voice locked up in her throat when she saw the two bags slung over the taller guy's shoulder.

"Ore-sama awaits your apology," he said, foot tapping impatiently.

Ryoma looked from him to the more expensive tennis bag. The name Atobe Keigo was scribed into it in thread the color of his eyes. Not only was he a pretentious jerk, but he was a pretentious jerk who played tennis. Of all the qualities in a male that she loathed, someone who played tennis was at the top of her list. Selfish? Okay. Snobbish? Acceptable. Stupid? Fine. Tennis player? Not interested!

"You play tennis?" she scoffed.

"Atobe Keigo." She guessed right about the bag, then. "I'm the captain of Hyotei's tennis club. We won Nationals last year." He smirked. "You've probably heard of me."

She had, in fact, heard of him. Her father had taken her to the matches, hoping that it would inspire her to join a tournament or club. All it had left her with was a desire to learn that World of Ice technique, so she could try to freeze her father's love for the game. Or the technique of that blue-haired boy, who had made his opponent cry and quit the sport altogether. Such an achievement would be worth her time; anything that earned her freedom was worth her time.

"If you're stupid enough to play tennis, then you're too dumb to understand an apology. I'd rather save my breath." Ryoma glared, before turning back the way she'd come. This wasn't the only path through the park, after all. She jogged away.

"Ah? What did you say?" Atobe asked.

Ryoma glanced to her left, startled to see him keeping pace with her. "Are you following me?"

"Don't ignore my question!" Atobe snapped.

What was this guy's deal? Why did he care if she insulted tennis? It's not like she could hurt the stupid sport's feelings. "Do you need me to read between the lines for you? You still have lots more to work on." Then Ryoma sped up, but no matter how fast she ran, he kept pace with her. She was grudgingly impressed, but that was buried beneath a mound of annoyance. "Tennis is a game played by people who have no lives," she ground out.

It was true. When her father wasn't playing tennis, he lounged around and looked at magazines with inappropriate pictures. As for herself, thanks to tennis, she couldn't have a life. The sun was set most evenings before her father called a stop to their matches, and the weekends were swallowed up in sets and physical training. Sometimes she didn't even get to sleep, because pushing past endurance and exhaustion was something that every professional tennis player could accomplish.

Her father was adamant that she follow in his footsteps and become a professional.

"Why would you want anything else if you have tennis?" Atobe demanded, face hard.

Ryoma stumbled at his words. Her ankles ached from the force of stopping so abruptly. "Are you really that stupid?" she asked. Surely monkeys were more intelligent than this! His words echoed in her head: _Why would you want anything else if you have tennis?_

Atobe scowled, arms folded across his chest; he wasn't winded. "Must you persist in insulting Ore-sama's intelligence? Ore-sama is at the top of his class!"

Ignoring the attention they were garnering, as they had stopped near some street tennis courts, Ryoma twisted his question and spat it back at him. "Why would you want tennis, if you could have anything else?"

The look that came over his face was pitying. "Because it's tennis." He spoke slowly, as if she were the dumb one.

Ryoma growled and watched some middle school kids rally a ball. They were smiling and laughing, even though they weren't any good. They missed the simplest of returns. Their serves were slow and weak; she could've beaten them when she was eight-years-old, and that was being kind. Forgetting for a moment that Atobe was even there, she whispered, "I hate tennis."

"What? Why?" Atobe reared back, as if she had slapped him.

Her hand ached, and Ryoma ran her thumb over her calluses. They had dotted her hand as far back as she could remember. The red racket her father had given her toughened her once smooth skin. Now it was rough and scarred by a sport that held her prisoner. She tried to understand why the boys were smiling, why her father smiled while playing, but it didn't make any sense to her. Ryoma couldn't remember ever being happy about playing tennis.

She remembered sprints, runs, and push-ups. She remembered sit-ups, stretching, and flexibility exercises. She remembered endless practice swings. She remembered her dad teasing her every time she got something wrong, and telling her that she always had more to work on. She remembered being told that pretty dresses were impractical, before her father bought her white shorts and a tennis shirt. She remembered being told that elegant high-heels were dangerous, because she might injure herself, as her father gave her yet another pair of tennis shoes for her birthday. She remembered training weights, and a disciplined eating plan, and Ryoga leaving her in the hell that was _tennis_.

"I hate it. I hate it. I hate it," she mumbled.

The teenagers on the various courts were smiling, laughing, and talking to each other. They bounced with excitement. They congratulated each other on their wins. Ryoma didn't understand it. How could anyone ever like tennis, let alone love it?

Atobe grabbed her hand. Ryoma froze, and then stared at his stunned expression as he dragged his thumb across the calluses on her left palm. There were calluses on her right one, too, but they weren't as pronounced. "You play tennis." It wasn't a question.

As much as she wished to deny it, she couldn't honestly do so. Unknowing why she bothered to respond, instead of ripping her hand from his grasp and running again, Ryoma said, "Yes."

"You play tennis, and you hate it," Atobe stated. There was something anguished in his eyes, as if his heart was breaking.

"Yes," she repeated. Unconsciously, she flipped her hand and stroked the calluses on his hand. They were at least as tough and prominent as hers. He practiced very often, and had been playing for most of his life. She knew her palms said the same thing.

"Why?"

The answer immediately swam to the forefront of her mind, but Ryoma wasn't sure if she could admit the truth. Even in her own mind, she lied to herself about why she hated tennis. It hurt less than being honest. However, she was tired of running away from the reason she played tennis, even though she loathed it. She was sick of fleeing from a reality that never changed, no matter how many times she acceded to her father's wishes.

The truth tasted bitter on her tongue, and stabbed at her heart. "Because Echizen Nanjiroh loves tennis more than he loves his own family . . . more than he loves his only daughter," she whispered.

Atobe sucked in a harsh breath. His grip tightened on her hand. He swayed for a moment, as if her comment had hit home. Perhaps it did. Weren't his parents the head of some huge conglomerate or something? How much time would that leave for him? If Ryoma understood his reaction correctly, Atobe's parents loved money and prestige as much as her father loved tennis.

"What do you love?" Atobe asked, as he clutched her hand. His eyes bore into her intensely, but it didn't make Ryoma feel uncomfortable.

"My cat," Ryoma replied without hesitation. Karupin loved her in return, and only wanted some attention. Ryoma was happy to give it to her. Karupin gave her more physical affection that her parents ever had.

Atobe perused her from head to toe. Then, as if he had reached a conclusion, he asked, "Could you make room in your heart for a husband?"

It was an absurd question—completely and utterly ridiculous. Yet, Ryoma nodded without thinking about it. He had chased after her, even though he didn't know her. He had listened to her, even though he didn't know her. He hadn't forced her to play tennis. He hadn't even asked her to play, despite his obvious love for it. He hadn't mocked her responses, or made fun of her. He had been polite and respectful, while she had been rude and unkind and dismissive.

In the past half-hour, Atobe Keigo had given her more attention than anyone had since her brother ran away. Her father didn't count. He just . . . well, he didn't count. _He wants to spend time with tennis, not me_. Ryoma winced at the thought.

Arranged marriages were common among the wealthy. Ryoma had distantly feared that her father would try to match her up with a professional tennis player, before realizing that a pregnancy would cut into her career, and perhaps end it altogether. Echizen Nanjiroh would never allow that to happen to his legacy, if he had anything to say about the matter.

Still, the familiar fear surfaced. What if she agreed, and Atobe's love of tennis came between them? A lifetime of never being more important than a stupid sport would destroy her. She'd shatter into more pieces that the rocks she practiced her twist serve on. "Could you make room in your heart for more than tennis?"

It was a legitimate question, and something that her father failed at daily.

Atobe set his hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "_I love tennis_." His words rang with truth; his eyes burned. Ryoma swallowed. "But I would love my wife and family more than everything else." Atobe's voice was passionate, his words sounding like a vow. The color of his eyes was suddenly so vibrant, that Ryoma wondered if she would drown in them.

Ryoma was an expert at reading people's expressions, and Atobe meant what he said. "I . . . I believe you," Ryoma replied. She did. The thought of being first in someone's life, in someone's heart, caused tears to prick her eyes.

His hands slid down her arms, raising goose bumps in their wake. His thumb traced over her left ring finger. "Solid gold, to match your eyes. A black diamond, to match your hair." Atobe smirked. "They're my favorite colors."

Ryoma sniffled, though she'd deny it. No one had ever referred to anything relating to her as a 'favorite' before. It was a novel experience. "Atobe Ryoma," she said, trying it on for size.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "It's perfect."

As Ryoma stared up into blue eyes that were more beautiful than Karupin's, something she had previously believed impossible, she couldn't help but agree. "Yes, it is." She would marry Atobe, take his family name, and destroy Echizen Nanjiroh's legacy with a no-touch ace.

And perhaps—just perhaps—if Atobe kept his word, which she didn't doubt, and loved her most . . . then maybe she would let her husband attempt to teach her what was so special about tennis.


End file.
